


Legwork

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, F/M, I mean it's pretty mild but, M/M, Multi, Mygolly, Prompt Fill, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt: Legs</strong><br/>The words they spoke always seemed to do more to cloud the air between them than to clear it, but in this, he wanted to be as explicit as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legwork

**Author's Note:**

> **Heed the tags, y'all! If this sort of thing is not your tea, don't drink it!** This is stretched across the background of HS 7-14.
> 
> The joy is not the same  
> without the pain  
> "Something to Talk About"-Badly Drawn Boy

The first solid hint Mycroft got was quite early in the physical portion of his relationship with Molly Hooper. His mobile chirped in the night to alert him of an incoming message, and when he and leaned up to reach for it in its cubby on his headboard, he accidentally caught Molly’s braid under his elbow. Her hips gave an inadvertent and incongruous jerk, and she moaned in a way that did not sound at all like she was in pain. He froze and slowly blinked wide eyes at her sleeping form in the dim glow of his phone, suddenly fully awake.

It was hardly news to him that people revealed all manner of secrets in their dreaming state. Indeed, this was a small part of the reason he typically eschewed human contact altogether, and had struggled so long against forming a deeper connection with Greg, or even acknowledging his feelings for the pathologist in his arms. Better to remain separate and isolated than to run the risk of baring too much skin to the air.

He considered, and decided to file this away until more evidence could be assembled. Assumptions and deductions had never served him well with this particular woman, beyond discerning the quality of her character. He resolved to devise a few minor tests before broaching the subject properly, and slipped from the bed to request the particulars of the situation in Central America.

He had already determined that she didn’t mind a few gentle nips, and the first time he heedlessly dug his short nails into the soft flesh around her hips in the heat of passion, his later apology had been met with a reassurance. “Really, Mycroft, I don’t mind a bit,” she insisted, but seemed to change her mind about saying anything else. Knowing what he did about Molly’s comfortable acceptance of her own sexuality, it seemed unlikely that she remained unaware of her more visceral reactions to certain stimulus. He was puzzled, and it made him wary. Perhaps he had read the whole thing wrong.

He figured it out early one grey morning when he spotted her twisting to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror before she knew he was out of bed. She was tracing her fingers over a love bite on her pale shoulder and then smiling faintly as she pressed down hard. _Oh_. She looked up, flustered and a little guilty when he spoke, and he laughed in spite of himself. Confirmed. And what was truly sweet: his Molly was concealing her enjoyment to keep from frightening _him_. He stooped to brush a kiss across her lips, and their hands met on the mark just over her trapezius.

“This?” he asked, tapping the bruise, and she blushed so fiercely that her cheeks practically glowed.

She bit her lip, met his gaze, and nodded. “Yes, Mycroft,” she said, and they shared a grin. As he was content to leave it at this level- at least for now- he wrapped her in a hug and changed the subject to breakfast plans as they stepped into the shower. There would be time to revisit the subject later.

Except that there wasn’t.

The next time he saw her was nearly two weeks later, and the situation was already altered by the presence of his other lover. In his unexpected absence following his kidnapping, his paramours had formed a support system between themselves. Before he could even toe out of his shoes, Greg Lestrade was offering a more significant change to the dynamic. He wanted Molly, too, and Mycroft doubted that he knew yet all the reasons that had the potential to work so beautifully.

The games he sometimes played with the detective inspector had deepened now that they had made their association official, and it was on the tip of his tongue to introduce this added layer of compatibility into the conversation each time he had Molly and Gregory in the same room as they visited while he healed from his ordeal. He reminded himself that this was not his to share, and besides, wouldn’t it be far more fun to watch them figure it out for themselves as they began their own partnership? If the situation got dire enough, he could always give them a nudge, but he had faith. They were both remarkably canny. He hadn’t actually had a proper conversation about this with Molly yet, it was possible that she wouldn’t be interested in going further than they had. The words they spoke always seemed to do more to cloud the air between them than to clear it, but in this, he wanted to be as explicit as possible.

It took some weeks past their first night as a triad.

Their arrangement was a secret from all but the denizens of Baker Street, and he deemed that fair enough, as Sherlock had discerned the true target of Molly’s affections before he ever would have guessed. Though he wasted some effort confounding casual observation, he had been having occasional trysts with Greg for years. So, the first time the copper had left a vest in his bedroom floor in his hurry to sneak back to his own flat and change for work, Mycroft had smiled and dropped it into the hamper. Laundry was not the housekeeper’s job as most things went to dry-cleaning anyway, and Mycroft doubted the man he employed would have a sufficient interest to notice the difference between two sorts of men’s undershirts if he had reason to start the wash. Molly’s clothes had given him more pause, but she had stammered out such a heartfelt thanks at being presented a drawer in which to keep her things that he figured it was worth the risk of discovery, remote as it was. The practicality of them having clothes here coupled with the removal of suspicion if anyone began to wonder why his little brother’s friends brought overnight bags whenever they stopped over to ‘discuss Sherlock’ soothed his paranoia while also being deeply satisfying. (His lovers planned to come back, and here was proof in the form of bits of fabric.)

They never actually offered to help clean their things. One Friday, she beat him to his house after his workday ran later than anticipated, and he found her sorting colours into piles in front of his machine. Greg fell into step beside her, affably following her expert lead, and Mycroft put his folding skills to use. The task became another thing they divided up until it was no real chore. It was also what led to the next development.

Molly was in his sitting room, queuing up some music on his stereo and idly snapping her thigh with a hanger when Gregory strode in with the basket of clothes, warm from the dryer. Mycroft saw his focus zero in on the sound of wood smacking against Molly’s leg hard enough to make a noise through her light skirt, and he hadn’t quite suppressed his private smile by the time Greg’s darkened gaze searched him out. He nodded, and his detective set his jaw. “Oi! You ruddy bastard, you knew!” he declared just above a whisper, and their lady turned her head to see what they were bickering about. She followed their pointed stares, realised what she’d been doing and reached the correct conclusion with a dizzying quickness.

“Greg,” she started, “ah,” and she giggled. Fumbling and nervous, she handed the hanger over, and Greg dropped the basket of clothes in front of the sofa and accepted it from her. He gave Mycroft a quick swat with it (for keeping secrets, he understood) and they sat down to sort out their respective vestments.

Haltingly at first, then growing bolder as the topic found traction with each of them, they discussed their shared interest in kink. For Mycroft, it was almost a philosophical quandary: if the person in the dominant role has only the illusion of power in a consensual scene, one must assume a submissive position to actually assert control, so he happily accepted either as the situation and shifting needs called for it. Gregory was a more straightforward sort of leader and this naturally carried over to the bedroom, though with Mycroft as a partner, he was regularly reminded of who held all the cards in the balance of things. Molly was more service-oriented (which didn’t surprise anyone) with a definite masochistic streak (which did). This had remained mostly unexplored. “I, well, had this boyfriend in med school. I mentioned it once and he,” she cleared her throat and winced, “was not exactly receptive.” She had never managed to bring it up in the context of a relationship again.

Later, in the hushed hours after dinner and dishes and gentle deviances, he and Greg passed whispers back and forth across the expanse of pillows. His very favourite inspector stroked his fingers over the faint marks the cuffs had left on his wrists, and Mycroft smiled at the thought of sitting on his bruised bum at his desk on Monday. Their third lay between them, neat pink lines down the backs of her thighs and a smile on her face. _This_ , he thought, before he joined her in sleep, _is the sort of legwork I could get used to_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and thanks to Jaimistoryteller for holding my hand when I told her I wanted to try this and was terrified to. Hope you enjoyed it, or at least didn't hate it!


End file.
